


The Problem With Disguises

by retrogrademercury



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Military Fetish, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrogrademercury/pseuds/retrogrademercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as part of the johnlockchallenges November/December 2012 gift exchange for Tumblr user youcantsaymylastname. The prompt: "undercover in disguise." The genres requested taken as prompts: smut; BDSM.</p><p>John and Sherlock go out in disguise to catch a killer who frequents gay clubs. John chooses to go as a different side of himself. Sherlock approves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time that John kissed Sherlock, it was just a peck—meant to console, to subdue, and to convince.

“Look, I think it's barmy, too,” John murmured, their breath mingling. “But it's a case, and our suspect is one murder away from being a serial killer, and I know how you love those.”

“What was that for?” Sherlock rasped, taken completely off-guard by this sudden tenderness, his mind derailed from their discussion about the present case, to John's unexpected display of physical intimacy.

“Because I thought twenty-four hours was sufficient enough time for you to absorb the knowledge that I love you, you git,” John said with a chuckle. His voice was so low, and he was so close, and—

“Twenty-six hours, actually,” Sherlock corrected, ever one to argue semantics, regardless of the situation. Still distracted, he nevertheless tried to return to the topic at hand. “And while I often don disguises for cases, I have never known you to do so, nor have I ever expected it of you.”

“Well, this arrangement of ours requires me to be flexible, doesn't it? Just because I haven't doesn't mean I never will.” John closed the tiny distance between them again for another kiss, and Sherlock was ready for this one. This time, he could taste the tea John had been sipping, which had gone a bit tepid.

“Did you want to discuss the case or snog? The signals I'm getting are very mixed, John,” Sherlock would've huffed, if he'd had it in him in that moment to summon some petulance. Instead, he was breathless as he said it, putting up a weak fight.

“Right now? Sod the case.” John kissed him again and again, and Sherlock slowly got used to the idea, or perhaps ideas—the ideas that the man slowly easing him onto the sofa loved him, both enough to want to kiss him and to dress in disguise, however potentially embarrassing, for the sake of a case.

“I still haven't told you the rest of what we covered in the briefing,” Sherlock said during a pause. “The disguises are for the purpose of staking out every gay bar in the city. Lestrade and company have determined, with my help, that it's part of the killer's M.O.”

“Oh.” John sat back, and Sherlock momentarily panicked that that fact would put John off the idea of disguises. But then John said, to Sherlock's great relief, “Anything for the case. So how would you like to see me?”

The panic, which had only momentarily retreated, came back in a rush. It was all too much to process, and Sherlock just needed to be alone. “I can't do this right now, John.” Sherlock dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I want it, I do. But it's all too much. I need to devote all my attentions to this case.” He put his hands down, hoping John would still be there.

John was, and he wasn't angry. He was, in fact, perfectly calm. “Of course. I presumed too much there.” He disengaged himself and stood. “Look, how about you tell me when it's fine? I'm patient, really. I don't want to be an obstacle or a detriment to your work.”

“You're not. You've never been. You make me _better,_ John,” Sherlock said, shocked that John would even consider such things.

“But it's hard to balance the two, me wanting to help and me wanting to kiss you,” John suggested.

“Yes. Yes, _exactly._ ”

“So just tell me.” John headed to the kitchen to dump his mug in the sink. He returned after a moment to where Sherlock remained on the couch, curled up. But instead of facing inward, toward the back of the sofa as he did during a strop, Sherlock faced out, and John took that as a sign that they could at least discuss the case. “Right,” John said, thereby resuming the conversation. “My previous question still stands. We should go in disguise, but how?”

“I doubt we'll find our suspect right away, so any old disguise will do for the first stakeout,” Sherlock mused, flipping onto his back into what John had come to recognise as his thinking pose. “The most important thing is to look like anyone but ourselves.”

John considered that for a moment, wondering what in his wardrobe and personal effects would serve that purpose. He decided now was as good a time as any to find out. “I'll go upstairs and see what I have, and then report back. I may go to bed at some point while I'm up there, so, er, in that case, good night.”

_What an evening,_ John thought ruefully as he headed up the stairs. _First you're snogging your flatmate, to whom you have said “I love you” merely a day previous, and immediately thereafter, you're beating a hasty retreat. I'm just a victim of bad timing, that's all. We've got a case. Focus on the case._

He entered his bedroom and, true to his word, started to consider his wardrobe. There hung the button-downs, slacks, and jeans he knew he would find, with jumpers folded neatly on shelves. Here and there he found a seldom-used neck tie, and his suit, still wrapped in plastic from its most recent trip to the cleaners.

Though John knew what he would find tucked away in the back: a single box containing the relics of a past life. He did not hang his dress uniform, and had not done so since he left the service. It was folded, he knew, along with the one set of combat fatigues he knew had made it out of Afghanistan in one piece, more or less. His dog tags and his most important and official paperwork rounded out the collection. It always hit him hard to know that such a big part of his life was able to fit so neatly in a single box.

But John had not pulled out the box with the intention of reminiscing. His purpose for doing so was practicality, because if the situation called for a disguise, he would do that. He would once again don the mask of Captain John Watson because the situation called for it, as he had done every time the man he loved had needed him to do so. This time, however, it would be more plain to see.

His dog tags jingled as he moved the box from his wardrobe to the bed. The only part of the ensemble that was included but didn't fit in the box were his boots, but they could stay where they were for the moment. London was composed of concrete, not sand. But the dog tags' jingling had awakened something in him: a half-formed idea, or a feeling long buried. He pulled them out and examined them for a moment.

At some point between being shot, and being invalided and sent back to England, some kind and conscientious soul had cleaned them for him. They fairly glinted as he turned them over between his fingers, feeling the bumpy underside dig into his fingertips. _The case, Watson. Focus on the case. What use do these relics have for you right now, if for no other reason than to make an ageing soldier feel bad about himself?_

But the thing was, John didn't feel bad about anything, at least not now. It had been hellish, those first few months, with the limp and the nightmares and the crushing tedium. But Sherlock had brought the battlefield back to him. In a strange way, it was as though John had never left. He might not be called “Captain” any more, but the soldier had never gone off-duty.

The reaffirmation settled on him, squared his shoulders, sharpened his resolve. He closed his fingers around the dog tags and replaced the lid on the large box with the other. _It might not be quite what Sherlock has in mind, but I think it will serve our purpose well enough._

John returned the box to its place in his wardrobe, but put his dog tags on his end table, close to the bed. The best way to get into character, he knew, was to begin to live as though he were in disguise, even a little bit. A reminder nearby would serve to help with that.

He went to bed not long after, and dreamed of the stars over Afghanistan, the ones he'd seen on those rare quiet nights when bombs didn't explode and men didn't die in the sand, far from home.

The next morning, John woke up to the sound of the alarm clock that reminded him that he was indeed Dr. John Watson and he had a horde of patients to see that day. But the dog tags lay there on the table right in his line of sight, reminding of who he once was, and that that part of him had never really gone away.


	2. Chapter 2

 The second time, it was as part of a cover, though of course, that didn't mean it was any less genuine.

John had given Sherlock a large helping of grief over his choice of disguise (the usual suit, but with a bit of product in his hair and wire-rim glasses, which led John to call Sherlock an “overachieving middle-management twit”), and Sherlock had responded in kind (“A T-shirt and cargo pants, really? It's a bit basic and unimaginative, don't you think? And God, where ever did you find those boots?”). John decided to interpret Sherlock's taking the piss as constructive criticism, and found a button-down to throw on over the T-shirt. Sherlock, on the other hand, did not alter his appearance any further.

But the two managed to strike a silent truce while in the cab on the way to the club. They each retreated into their own heads, reviewing the facts of the case and getting into their respective characters. John didn't have to stray too far into the realm of falsehood to draw up a sketch of back story for himself: He was Jack, newly returned from Afghanistan, invalided out like John Watson. Sherlock had said nothing about his guise for the evening, but that was part of the point. They weren't supposed to know each other, and if they were to speak in person while at the club, they were to do it under the pretext of flirting with each other.

From experience and observation, John had picked up on the fact that Sherlock's disguises actually had little to do with how he looked, and more about how he carried himself; how he sounded; what words he chose to use; even what accent he chose to use (though his American accent was invariably an East Coast mishmash, and his Australian was abysmal). Though it could be argued that it wasn't very creative, John was becoming more and more glad that he had decided to recall memories of his military days for his disguise. His posture, his gait—it all came back to him as muscle memory. But of course, his dog tags hung on their chain, hidden under his shirt.

The plan so far was as follows: John was going to get out at a different place and kill time somehow. The first idea they'd had was to find the club with longest queue, have John get in it, and then wait for Sherlock to go to the intended club and do a quick investigation. After no more than ten minutes, Sherlock would text John to tell him whether he suspected the killer to be in attendance. If so, John would duck out of the queue and head to the other club.

Sherlock was the one to break their silence, signalling to the driver to stop near John's club. “I'll text you,” he said as reminder.

“Right.” John alighted, and the cab sped off down the street to Sherlock's club.

The queue in front was easily long enough to kill ten or fifteen minutes of John's time waiting for word from Sherlock, and it didn't seem to be moving very quickly. John slipped into line behind a man wearing the most form-fitting pair of jeans he had ever seen. “Skinny jeans,” he was sure he'd heard them called. In any case, they were a look John knew he couldn't pull off.

After ten minutes, John counted five men absent from the front of the queue. Sherlock had picked well. Just at that moment, the phone in his pocket buzzed, indicating a text message.

_He's here. The queue is short. -SH_

John huffed dramatically. “Sod this. It's not worth it,” he said to no one in particular.

“I hear that, mate,” said Skinny Jeans in front of him, turning around. “You calling it a night?” He raked his eyes over John as he spoke.

_Stay in character,_ he reminded himself. “No, not just yet. Might try one more place.”

“Brilliant. I'll follow your lead, if it's all the same to you. Care to split a cab?” Before John could reply, Skinny Jeans stepped out of the queue and succeeded in hailing the first cab that passed by.

John was in no position to refuse. He needed to get to the other club as soon as possible. “Cheers, mate,” he said in thanks as the cab pulled up.

“Not a problem. Where are we headed?” Skinny Jeans climbed in first.

John supplied the driver with the name of the club, and they continued down the street. “I'll pick this up, by the way. It's no problem.”

“Many thanks, kind stranger,” Skinny Jeans said in a comically formal manner. “Mind if I ask your name?”

“Jack,” he said. And if anyone should happen to get close enough to see his dog tags, he could claim Jack as a nickname for John, which was valid and believable.

“Nice to meet you, Jack. I'm Long,” the club-goer formerly known as Skinny Jeans told him. “It means 'dragon,' but it could just as easily refer to something else, if you care to find out.” As he spoke, he sidled up closer.

But that was all Long was able to do as the club came into sight. John shifted away slightly to dig out his wallet and pay the driver. He had to get out first, and hoped desperately that Long would not attempt to grab his arse. Though he was in disguise, he was also on a case, and the tension and anticipation were winding him up as tight as a bowstring. He didn't want to risk losing his cool or dropping the disguise over something so unexpected.

Thankfully, the only thing Long did was talk, which John could handle. The queue outside the new club was only about five people deep, and Long only had time to promise to repay John for the cab ride in drinks. In fact, Long was so intent on doing so that John barely had time to look at the layout of the club, and absolutely no time to see if he could spot Sherlock in the crowd.

“What's your poison?” Long asked, projecting his voice over the music.

“Pint of Stella,” John replied distractedly, still scanning the crowd for Sherlock.

Long got their drinks and found a corner of the bar that offered John a better view of the club. Not that it mattered; his task at the moment was to seem interested in making small talk with this young stylish man who had to be at least ten years John's junior.

“So what do you do?” Long asked.

“Nothing as of yet,” John replied. “I'm recently returned from Afghanistan.”

“Oh, well, thank you for your service,” Long said, raising his martini glass, and John clinked his pint glass against it.

“I'm an aspiring fashion designer, but I'm stuck helping out in my parents' laundry for the moment,” Long said in response to John's unasked question.

“Does your business do bespoke work?” came a voice from behind them, a voice John would know anywhere.

“Only if my mum takes a liking to you. She's rather particular about her clients, as a tailor.” Long spoke as he turned around, and the look on his face declared that he liked what he saw. “Oh, my, aren't you a slim one? I dare say Mum would like you already, not to mention me. You'd be a lovely model for a line I'm planning.”

“Sorry to intrude,” Sherlock said, ignoring most of what Long had said. “I was passing by, and I couldn't help overhearing. I'm always in the market for a good tailor.”

“And it shows, love,” Long said, eyes lingering a moment too long on Sherlock's trousers. “Care for a drink? My treat.”

“Vodka tonic,” Sherlock said, and Long moved with alacrity to put in the order. Sherlock took the opportunity to say, “He ducked off to the loo a minute ago, but I don't want to risk tailing him just yet.”

“Give me a description. Tall, blond, short hair, that much I know. What's he wearing?”

“Leather jacket. Believe me, you'll know it when you see it.” Sherlock kept it brief; he'd spotted Long out of the corner of his eye, returning with drinks.

“I see you two are getting on rather quickly,” Long remarked, handing Sherlock his vodka tonic. Sherlock tipped it at Long in thanks and took a small sip. “Have we all done introductions, or am I running far behind?”

“Ah, right,” John said sheepishly. “I'm Jack. Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand to Sherlock.

“Kingsley. Pleasure.” Sherlock took it briefly, and then turned to Long, shaking his hand as well. “And you are...?”

“Long. It means 'dragon,' but could refer to something else, if you like.” John fought to keep from rolling his eyes, and suspected that the line had probably worked well enough for the man in the past that he felt encouraged to keep using it.

But as Long happened to glance past Sherlock and into the crowd, his lascivious smile slipped from his face. “Don't look now, but here comes trouble.”

John got that sudden taut bowstring feeling again. “What? Who?”

“Him over there.” Long gave a little toss of his head, and John saw him: their suspect. Tall, blond, gangly, and clad in a black leather motorcycle jacket, the man was holding court over a few similarly dressed companions.

“I take it his reputation precedes him?” Sherlock asked.

“He and his are the bane of my existence,” Long spat. “Once, he tried cornering me in the loo. Offered me twenty quid for twenty minutes. I refused. He wasn't happy about that.” Long shuddered so subtly that John almost didn't see it; however, he was sure Sherlock had.

“What did he do?” Sherlock asked, all sympathy.

“He tried to give me a bit of roughing up. Had me by the collar and everything, but some big bruiser just happened to come in at that very moment. It was over before it began, really. But I've tried to lay low ever since.” Long kept his eyes down as he related the story, toying nervously with the olive in his drink.

John and Sherlock looked over at him. _Laurence Connington,_ the dossier had said. New Scotland Yard had taken to calling him “Larry the Con,” even though his main crime, besides murder, seemed to be sexual assault, for which he'd had a prior conviction as a younger man.

“If you stay close to us, you should be fine. No need to let some arse ruin your night a second time,” John told him. Sherlock nodded his agreement. Long looked up and expression brightened, and John realised exactly how young he was. _Barely out of university, or perhaps still in._

“My heroes,” he said, fawning over them, his previous good humour quickly returning. John laughed, and Sherlock cracked a smile without prompting.

John strategically placed himself between Connington and Long, and as he moved, he could feel his dog tags shift under his shirt. It was too loud for any of them to hear any accompanying jingling, but the mere sensation of them between his shirt and his heart made John feel all the more protective.

The three of them chatted a while, and John and Sherlock further introduced themselves to each other. “Kingsley” worked a desk job for a large company, a position which he described as “lucrative but unfulfilling.” He hadn't visited this club in years, and had known it well in a previous incarnation. Tonight's visit was purely for old times' sake.

“And what brings you here tonight, Jack?” Long asked.

“Well, I haven't been home in a while, and I wanted to reintroduce myself to the scene,” John explained. “I need to do something with my time other than job-hunting and physiotherapy.”

“There's always crap telly,” Sherlock suggested, eliciting some knowing laughter from both men.

“Where were you wounded, if you don't mind my asking?” Long said.

“Left shoulder.” John pointed to it. “The bullet went all the way through. Looks a right mess. Or it did, when it first happened. You could probably tell how bad it was from the scar.”

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's an invitation,” Sherlock said, draining his vodka tonic.

Long excused himself to get the next round. “He's repaying me for the cab ride,” John explained.

“Shut up a minute.” Sherlock took John by his wounded shoulder. The ball of Sherlock's thumb kneaded the scar tissue. “I've been wanting to do this the whole night.”

John let Sherlock draw him in close, and John responded by slipping his hand against the small of Sherlock's back. They were close enough to kiss, and John hoped they would, _knew_ they would, but couldn't tell which of them would make the move first. Sherlock's lips brushed his, fingers and thumb idly massaging John's shoulder. For one blissful second, the club, the noise, and the case slipped away. In that one second, he _was_ Jack, openly snogging a good-looking man he'd just met in one of London's various gay bars like it was no big deal.

John briefly wondered what had got into Sherlock to drive him to such a blatant public display of affection, but had a feeling that all would be revealed soon enough. He had, after all, forgotten to ask Sherlock if he'd intended for Kingsley to be a huge slut.

Long, who had placed the next round of drinks on the bar beside them, quickly brought them back to earth. “Interrupting something, am I?”

“Er, sorry,” John said. “That was just a little friendly agreement, that's all. He wanted to know what my scar felt like, and I told him that to do so, he'd need to kiss me.”

“Did you find everything to be satisfactory, then?” Long asked Sherlock, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“I'll have to do more research, see how it plays in other markets,” Sherlock said mock-seriously.

“Oh, so you're in advertising, then.” Long cornered Sherlock into a conversation about how best to market his future fashion line, leaving John to re-evaluate the state of the room and the location of their suspect.

John knew it wasn't exactly his place to be the brains of the operation, but he knew that Long would be the key to them catching Larry the Con tonight. He gave the leather-clad group a quick look over his shoulder, and his heart jumped into this throat as Connington's gaze met his. Worse still, John and Sherlock's brief display had opened up their small group just enough so that Connington also caught sight of Long standing with them. Long was still chatting with Sherlock, and thus was oblivious to this split-second exchange.

Connington excused himself from his group with a lazy wave of his hand and swaggered over to where the three of them stood at the bar. “I remember you,” he said to Long, getting slightly too close for the smaller man's comfort. “I once made you a very sensible offer, and you turned me down. Now you're hangin' around _these_ tossers? When will you realise you can do so much better?” He slammed a hand down on the bar, cutting John off. Connington had probably hoped the impact would make Sherlock flinch and back away, but he stood his ground, straight-faced.

“Tell you what, whatever I offered before, I'll double it. What was it last time, twenty?” Connington laughed menacingly. “Either way, I'll be havin' those twenty minutes somehow or another.”

Long stood stock-still, refusing to cower in Connington's presence. John pushed his way between them, not paying any heed to Connington's hand on the bar. “Whatever you offered before,” John said, sneering as he threw Connington's words back to him, “it doesn't seem to me like he's interested, nor will he ever be. So piss off.”

“What are you now, his keeper? Did the ickle pretty boy run off and find himself a daddy?” Connington got right in John's face. “This doesn't concern you, short stuff. This is a business offer between two parties, not three, so how about _you_ piss off, eh? Wouldn't want this to come to blows now and ruin everyone's fine time, would we?”

John looked away, pretending to consider what Connington had said. And just as he'd hoped, Connington lunged, grabbing Long by the arm. Long cried out, and Sherlock put a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder, preventing Connington from dragging him away then and there.

“Oh, come on, lads, two against one ain't very sporting.” One of Connington's companions had already taken the hint, looming behind Sherlock, and Connington acknowledged him with a crooked smile.

John took the only opening he had and head-butted Connington as hard as he could given the short distance between them. The impact served to drive Connington back just enough to lose his grip on Long's shoulder. It also drove Connington into a blind rage. He picked up the nearest piece of glassware and dashed it against the bar. The only thing keeping him from driving it into John's face was a quick-moving Sherlock, who pushed Long away and grabbed Connington's wrist mid-swing, catching John between the two of them.

The lackey who stood behind Sherlock was torn between helping Connington and snatching up Long, his intended prey. Long sensed his confusion and ran for cover. Meanwhile, John slipped out from the struggle and wrested Connington's free arm behind his back. The hand holding the broken glass finally lost its grip, and the improvised weapon rolled away down the bar.

“John, get his other one!” Sherlock urged, and John reach up and bent Connington's other arm behind his back.

“The bartender's already called the police,” Sherlock panted, “but our men will be here sooner. Pleasure doing _business_ with you, Mr. Connington.”

“Yeah, as I'm sure it was a pleasure for the men you killed,” John growled, kicking Connington's feet out from under him for good measure as the footsteps of Lestrade's men approached. John kept him restrained until he was sure things were well and truly in their hands.

Sherlock pointedly straightened his blazer, which was a bit rumpled after the whole ordeal. “You might want to see to Long. He's hiding in the loo. Lestrade will want him as a witness.”

John fetched Long, finding the younger man spooked but otherwise unharmed. “This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He'll want to ask you a few questions,” John explained.

“You mean to say you were working with the police the whole time...? Wait a minute, I know you!” Long pointed at John. “You're that bloke with the blog about all those crimes and mysteries and whatnot. You're not Jack. You're John—John Watson.”

“My secret is out.” John shrugged and spread his hands.

“I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before. I'm a big fan.”

“Well, that was the point. We were doing a stakeout in disguise, after all.”

“And that makes Kingsley—”

“Sherlock Holmes.” The owner of the name appeared behind Long and Lestrade, and both turned to look at him. “Dr. Watson and I apologise for putting you in the line of danger.”

“That wasn't your fault. That was all Larry,” Long said good-naturedly. “And I'm trouble of a different sort, me.”

“Sorry to break up the party, chaps, but we really do need to get some statements,” Lestrade interjected. “I'll get them from you two in the morning. Connington's probably going to take all night.”

“We'll get ourselves home, Greg,” John assured him. “See you first thing in the morning.”

 

The silence on the cab ride home was brief. “Your disguise must have been effective. It took Long all night to realise who you were,” Sherlock remarked, removing his wire-rim glasses and tucking them away in his coat pocket.

“Or perhaps he's just not very observant.” John paused, and then decided to ask outright. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to. Should I not have done?”

“No, it was... fine. I just wasn't expecting it.”

“Of course you weren't, considering how I reacted last night when you kissed me.”

“Yes, but you were on a case, and I didn't want to distract you. But tonight, you weren't supposed to be you. You—we were in disguise, after all.” John took Sherlock's hand and laced their fingers together. “That was liberating, wasn't it?” Sherlock turned to face him, but John kissed him hard before he could get a word in.

Baker Street was close, and John broke the kiss long enough to say, “Would you be amenable to more?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. He brought his hand up to John's chest and drew out John's dog tags. “Especially if you bring these.”

The cab pulled up in front of 221B, and John nearly threw the fare at the driver in his haste to get out, get up the stairs, and get his consulting detective in bed.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time, it had a purpose unto itself. But they'd get to that after they stumbled up the stairs, leaving shoes, boots, and John's button-down in their wake.

“My room,” Sherlock said. “Let's not risk another flight of stairs.”

“Agreed.” John fumbled for the doorknob with one hand while the other one held Sherlock tight to his side. Neither one had to guide the other to the bed, and John soon had Sherlock pinned there through judicious use of his hands and mouth.

“When we started with this case, I recall you asking me how I'd like to see you,” Sherlock said as John divested him of his shirt. “Now I present the same question to you: How would you like to see me?”

“Naked, for a start.” An idea came to John, and he grinned. “I want to see _you_ so that you can't see _me_. Are you opposed to blindfolds?”

“Blindfolds,” Sherlock repeated thoughtfully.

“We've been in disguise all night. What would it be like if one of us couldn't see the other at all?” John looked around the room. “Do you have anything I could use?”

“I have a sleep mask in the drawer of the bedside table. Will that serve?”

“In a pinch, yes.” John was loath to leave even for a moment, but he got up to search for the mask, finding it tucked in a corner with various other items, including—

“Look at all this. It's like you knew.” John marvelled at the small assortment of condoms and the half-empty bottle of lube sitting in the drawer.

“They were ostensibly intended as masturbation aids,” Sherlock said nonchalantly. “But if you find you have a use for them, feel free.”

“Oh, you old sap.” John returned to the bed and straddled Sherlock once more, carefully considering what to do next.

“Give me a word,” John said after a moment. “Something you can say if you want me to stop.”

“A safe word, you mean.”

“Yeah, that.” It had been a while since John had dabbled in the kind of sex which warranted the use of such a word.

Sherlock smirked. “Apiology.”

John laughed. “Only if you're sure you can say that in the heat of the moment, then I'll accept it.”

“I hope I won't have to. Now kiss me again.” Sherlock slipped his hands up under John's shirt and tried to coax him down to the bed, but John stopped him by slipping the mask over his eyes.

Sherlock gasped at the sudden lack of sight, and John grabbed his wrist and ran his thumb along the underside, back and forth. “I've got you.”

“John,” he breathed, and pulled John's hand toward his mouth to kiss his hand.

John was amazed that such a small thing had brought about such a change in Sherlock, and sat still as Sherlock took his thumb into his mouth and sucked slowly.

“I do hope that's a sign of things to come,” John murmured as he gradually drew his thumb out of Sherlock's mouth. “But now that you can't see me, you need to listen and feel. That's all I want. Can you do that for me, love?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.” The words were a joy to hear, and Sherlock, in the spirit of cooperation, put his hands over his head.

John trailed his fingertips slowly down Sherlock's sides. When John reached Sherlock's hips, he hooked a finger under the waistband of both trousers and pants, running it back and forth from sharp hipbone to sharp hipbone and through the top of a patch of coarse hair. Despite himself, Sherlock let slip a deep moan, which John took as an encouraging sign.

On his next pass, John stopped at the button on Sherlock's trousers and, as quickly as he could, unhooked it. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath at the sudden loss of sensation, then seemed to hold it as John's fingers lightly brushed the length of his erection.

John laid a hand on Sherlock's chest to reassure him, while the other dipped behind the elastic waistband of his pants. “I did say 'listen and feel,' but I didn't say 'stop breathing.'”

Instead of a snarky remark along the lines of “breathing is boring,” Sherlock merely said, “Yes, sir.”

“That's nice, being called 'sir,'” John said as he worked on the zip of Sherlock's trousers. “Budge up a bit, and we'll get these off.” John pulled, and the trousers landed on the floor in a neat pile. “But it's not as nice as what I'm about to do to you.” Pants soon joined trousers on the floor.

“D'you know that thing you were doing with your tongue earlier?” John asked conversationally. “Would you like to know how that felt?” As he spoke, he took Sherlock's prick in hand and stroked gently, running his thumb over the head.

“Oh, God. Yes, please. 'Yes, please, sir,' I mean.”

“Of course you do.” John grasped Sherlock's hips, getting a nice handful of arse as he did so. “As I recall, it went something like this.” John bent down and gradually took Sherlock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around and then sucking, just a little bit.

But before Sherlock could get too used to the idea, John pulled back. “Just a tick,” he said, getting up and heading for the bedside table. He rifled through the drawer with one hand and ran the other in Sherlock's mop of curls, ensuring that there was no mystery as to where John was or what he was doing.

John tossed the supplies onto the bed, turned to Sherlock, and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Good so far?”

“Better than good,” Sherlock said with a grin. “You told me to listen and feel, and I believe I heard and felt a bottle of lube and a couple of condoms hit the bed just now.”

“So you think you know what's coming, eh?”

“I can only suppose.” Sherlock hesitantly reached out, groping along John's chest until he found the dog tags and drew them out. “Give me the order, sir.”

“Knees apart, and get a pillow. Prop yourself up,” John said with a note of authority in his voice, and Sherlock scrambled to obey. The pillow joined the condoms and lube at the foot of the bed.

John grabbed the bottle of lube and squeezed a generous amount into the palm of his hand and held it there for a moment to let it warm up. In the meantime, Sherlock arranged himself with the pillow under him, knees apart, legs spread. John dipped the fingers of the opposite hand into the pool of lube.

Because both hands were sticky with lube, John had no choice but to shock Sherlock a bit. One hand took the base of his erection, and the other dipped just below, coating his entrance. John did his best to ease Sherlock into his rhythm, stroking with one hand, pressing in with the other. It was a good sign for both of them when Sherlock arched his back to the point where his arse cleared the bed and let out a moan sure to be heard throughout the street.

“To be honest, I could do this all night,” John said when he was sure Sherlock could hear him. “But I have a problem that needs solving, and you're just the man for the job. Are you up for it, Holmes?”

“Yes, sir!” Sherlock replied with gusto.

“Good. Now listen, and tell me if you know what I'm doing.” John withdrew and stood up.

“That's your belt, and now your zip. That's your trousers hitting the floor,” Sherlock narrated. “There's your T-shirt getting caught on your dog tags. And now your pants...” he trailed off.

“Keep going,” John ordered.

“You've ripped open a condom, and you've run out of lube so you're going back for more. Now you're at the foot of the bed again, and—”

“Exactly right on all counts, Holmes. I commend you. Well done.” John pushed into him and shut him up with a kiss.

“Awaiting further orders, captain,” Sherlock gasped when John let him speak again. “I won't come until you let me.”

“How close are you?” John asked, dropping all pretence for a moment.

“So close, if you'd just keep—”

“Understood.” John maintained the same pace and angle, burying his hands in Sherlock's hair.

“Right there! Oh, _now,_ sir!”

“Do it, Holmes,” John growled, and Sherlock followed the order like a good soldier, sobbing something that sounded like “Yes, sir” over and over.

“They should pin a medal on you for what you do to me,” John grunted, and as Sherlock spasmed around him, John followed.

Later, cleaned up, in bed, and just drifting off to sleep, John swore he could hear Sherlock murmur, “I'd recite Whitman's 'O Captain! My Captain!' to you in tribute, but the poem is actually about Abraham Lincoln...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to domenicapm for taking on beta duties, especially since working on NaNoWriMo had turned my brain to scrambled eggs.


End file.
